


Suicide Squeeze

by DiscordantWords



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>noun. A high-risk, high-reward offensive play in which the runner runs all out at the pitch without knowing whether the batter will connect with the ball. Often used in the late innings of a close game in order to score a winning or tying run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between En Ami and All Things

*

THURSDAY

Manchester, NH  
9:15 PM

 

"Move it, ladies!"

They ran in pairs of two under bright stadium lights. Lap after lap after lap, cleats kicking up grass and dirt and mud. Their uniforms were dirty, their faces drawn and tired. No one laughed. 

In the center of it all, a grim statue stood on the pitcher's mound, arms crossed, their coach. 

"How long is she going to keep us here?" Connie Walters, fifteen years old and new to the varsity team, gasped out.

"Until she's satisfied we'll never lose again," the answer came from Danielle, their team captain. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she ran alongside Connie.

"I'm going to die," Connie said, tasting copper in the back of her throat and thinking she just might mean it. She looked down at her feet, focused on putting one in front of the other.

"She'll never permit that." 

"I have homework to do tonight. A test tomorrow." 

Danielle laughed, and the sound came out as a wheeze. "You've got a lot to learn, freshman." 

"LADIES!" the coach bellowed. "Are you slacking off so much that you have time for conversation? Ten more laps!" 

Danielle groaned, good nature bleeding from her face. "Do me a favor and keep the rest of your commentary to yourself." She increased her pace, putting distance between herself and Connie. 

"Thanks a lot, freshman," the hostile face of another girl flashed by. 

Connie put her head down, watching the ground rush by below her. Before the laps there had been drills. Pop up flies. Ground balls. Line drives. Bunting. Stealing bases. Sprints. The hours melted away with the setting sun. The memory of her first varsity game, her first varsity *loss*, had already been replaced with nothing more concrete than the rasp of air in her throat, the copper taste of over-exertion, the thud of her heart, the squeak of her left cleat and the blister forming on her foot where the stiff leather had worn her sock away. 

She hazarded a glance at the coach, standing alone with her whistle and angry face, and let a burst of white-hot hate rush through her. 

She envisioned storming the mound, throwing her glove in the coach's face. Maybe even spitting.

She did none of these things. Connie Walters, who had earned the nickname "spitfire" in elementary school and had never quite shaken it, who had once earned a two week suspension and a month in therapy for throwing a textbook at a teacher, had learned her lesson. She knew she'd never be allowed to play again if she let her temper rear its head, and she had begun to realize that softball might be the only thing in the world she actually gave a damn about. Instead she kept her head down, kept running. 

Her mother might have been proud of her, if she could have seen her restraint. She alone might have known what it meant for Connie to keep her mouth shut, to stay in line.

But she couldn't see. Parents had all been sent home following the disastrous game. She'd already missed dinner. Her little brother would be getting ready for sleep. 

"Enough!" Coach called. "Bring it in." 

She took a few more stumbling steps forward before she was able to turn her brain off autopilot. Her legs felt like jelly. She glanced around and saw the other girls limping in with similar stupefied expressions. 

Their coach gestured to the cooler without a word. Connie reached it first, filling a paper cup with red Gatorade and gulping greedily, gasping, not caring that half of it ran down the front of her uniform shirt. Someone shoved her out of the way and she sat down roughly in the dirt. 

Alex, their catcher, flopped in the grass, groaning. 

Connie looked to their coach, waiting for her to say something profound that might justify the hours of abuse they'd just been put through. 

"Have we all learned our lesson?" their coach asked.

Connie opened her mouth with the slow, horrible realization that her brain and mouth had disengaged and something terrible was certain to come out. Even as her lips moved she recognized that she was going to end her brief varsity career as quickly as she'd begun, that she'd violated that most holy of commandments, Thou Shalt Not Sass The Coach. 

Her retort was swallowed a low rumble from behind the backstop. 

The rumble increased, became a roar. The very dirt trembled, pebbles dancing around her shoes. Danielle stumbled into the cooler of Gatorade, sending it tumbling from the bench, red liquid splashing into dust. The stadium lights flared, and even as the light around her grew brighter her vision dimmed. 

Someone screamed. 

Then there was silence.

*

Connie groaned in her sleep, rolled over. Something tickled her nose and she twitched, swatting it away with a limp hand. 

She opened her eyes, expecting her bedroom ceiling, and stared in bewilderment at the night sky. 

Someone coughed next to her, and she turned, her cheek rasping against the dirt, saw Danielle stirring on the ground. Behind her, Alex, the catcher, looking curiously slack and placid, her eyes closed, head lolling to the side. 

"Did we pass out?" Connie asked, her tongue thick and uncooperative. Danielle blinked back at her with glassy, uncomprehending eyes. 

She struggled to her feet, brushing dirt and pine needles off of her filthy uniform shirt. Around her, trees waved in the gentle night breeze, and she was suddenly overcome with a dizzying sense of disorientation. The infield was gone. There was no pitcher's mound, no home plate.

They were in the middle of the woods. 

Ice cold fear prickled her skin. Connie realized she had begun to shake. 

Around her, the other girls were stirring, sitting up. 

"What the hell?" Jill, their center fielder, leapt to her feet, spinning in a circle. She pressed a hand to her head and dropped back to her knees, retching. 

Somewhere off to their left, she heard a rumbling. A low, mechanical sound that grew louder as it bore down on them.

*Not again,* Connie thought, without even really knowing why. *Please, not again.*

Lights flooded the clearing.

"NO!" Jill screamed. 

It took a moment for Connie to realize that the great mechanical roar was only an aging pickup truck, the blinding lights only headlights. 

"What in the hell?" a man was getting out of the truck, coming around front. He stopped when he saw them, nine girls in dirty uniforms. "Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, it's you. Thank god." 

Still feeling perilously out of sync with her surroundings, Connie took a step forward. "Who are you?" 

He ignored her, took a step forward. "Where the hell have you girls been? Everyone's looking for you. Christ, the whole town thinks you're dead." 

She looked over, caught Danielle's eye. Their de facto leader looked stunned.

"Dead?" Connie asked. Suddenly, she felt very cold. She wanted nothing more than to be home, in her room with its posters and cheery blue walls. 

"Where have you been?" the man pressed. "I gotta... oh, jeez, I gotta call someone." 

"We were running," Connie said, glancing at her teammates to see if anyone seemed to know more.

"Ah," the man said, grabbing a cell phone from inside the truck's cab. "Don't you girls worry, we'll get you back home in a jiffy." 

"How did we get here?" Jill asked, her voice wavering. 

The man squinted at them. "I think that's the question most everyone is going to be asking of you." 

"What time is it?" Connie asked. "Have we been out here long? It was after nine while we were at practice..." 

"Honey," the man said, not unkindly. "You've been gone for two days." 

 

*

SUNDAY

 

They had been driving for hours. Her head lolled drowsily against the cool window glass while he talked, finding the steady drone of his voice soothing. 

He had begun talking about aliens, and hadn't really stopped as they crossed state lines. They had done this so many times it had become comforting, his voice soporific, better than lullabies, better than pharmaceuticals. His words had begun to run together the closer she slipped towards sleep. 

"Cancer almost killed you," he told her. "Would curing it be worth dying for? Personally speaking?"

His voice had a hard edge that she was unaccustomed to. She lifted her head, shifted confused eyes towards the driver's seat. 

Mulder was no longer behind the steering wheel. The man driving had changed, become old, sallow, leering. He clutched a cigarette between nicotine-stained fingers, tapped it against the steering wheel. Ash drifted down to the travel worn floor mats.

He blew smoke in her face, laughed. 

*

Scully sat up, gasping. Her cheek was cold where she had pressed it against the glass of the car window. 

She glanced hastily to her left, but saw nothing but an expanse of empty vinyl seat, the dirty glass of the back window. 

The cab driver cast disinterested eyes towards her in the rearview mirror. 

The remnants of the dream were already fading, dissipating into the air like cigarette smoke. She surreptitiously wiped her mouth, straightened her clothes, smoothed her hair. She looked out the window at endless straight lines of trees. 

"Are we almost there?"

"Five more minutes," the driver said.

She nodded, watched the world fly by through the cloudy window. 

*

Bear Brook State Park  
Allenstown, NH  
7:48 AM

 

Even in the midst of a crowd, her eyes went straight to him. He had that kind of magnetism. 

He was standing underneath a canopy of trees, holding an umbrella to fend off the early-morning drizzle. Around him was a chaos of uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives and members of the press. They all milled about, an array of rain slickers and cameras. Flashes went off in a staccato strobe. She could see him wince, could tell just by his posture that he had arrived too late to secure the crime scene, clues lost to overenthusiastic truth seekers.

They appeared to have landed smack in the middle of a media circus. 

She got out of the taxi, paid the driver. She saw his eyes flick towards her through the crowd, saw something that might be guilt briefly pass over his face. 

She stood off to the side, not announcing her presence, waiting for him to finish up and join her. Her skin prickled in the damp morning chill. She did not have to wait long.

"Good morning," he said cautiously, tilting his head to look at her. 

She did not respond, simply held his gaze. After a moment, he dropped his eyes. If he'd been waiting to gauge her reaction, he'd gotten the answer he was looking for. 

"How did you know where we'd be?" he asked.

"I called the sheriff's office when my flight landed." 

He nodded. "There's not much here to see, Scully." 

She folded her arms over her chest, looked past him at the photographers and police, all crawling like ants over the clearing, trampling footprints and delicate forensic evidence. 

"Nine teenage girls. All reported missing by their softball coach, one Janice Sommers, on Thursday night. According to Ms. Sommers, they were finishing up a late practice when the sky 'lit up with an unearthly glow.' She fell to the ground, and when she opened her eyes, all nine girls had vanished without a trace." He raised his eyebrows at her. 

"Yes," she said curtly. "I know. I read the report. I had a three hour flight by myself." 

He paused for a second, glanced at her again, seemed to weigh her mood. His voice flattened as he continued. "Then you know that they turned up here, in the middle of the woods, more than twenty miles away from where they were last seen, with absolutely no recollection of the past two days." 

"And so here we are," she said through her teeth.

"Actually," he said, "I'm not really sure why you're here." 

She blinked at him, wounded, but he had already turned away. She'd walked into that, she knew. He put up his defenses so quickly, became prickly and impenetrable at the first sign of irritation on her part.

It rankled. 

"Believe me," she snapped. "There are a lot of things I'd rather be doing on a Sunday morning than going on another UFO wild goose chase. But Skinner seemed to feel you might need assistance with this one." 

He turned back, gave her an incredulous look.

She met his eyes, pursed her lips. "I'd like to see the victims."

*

Manchester, NH  
9:00 AM

 

They entered the police station side by side, her heels clicking, his arm occasionally brushing against hers in a rustle of coat fabric. Mulder was chewing his lip, looking anywhere but at her. 

A uniformed officer stood at the sight of them, shook their hands, introduced himself as Sheriff Harmon. 

"They're all gone," he said apologetically. "Wasn't much reason to keep them. Their parents were all anxious to get them home. " 

"You spoke with them?" Mulder asked Harmon. 

"I have. They don't remember much." 

"Have they been checked by a doctor?" Scully asked.

"Yeah, we took them to the hospital first. They were all suffering from some degree of exposure. And--" Harmon looked embarrassed. "On account of them not remembering... we asked that rape kits be run." 

"And?"

"No evidence of anything." Harmon ran his hand through his hair. "Hell of a thing. They were found fully clothed. Still in their softball uniforms from the other night." 

"Blood tests?" Scully asked.

"All clear. Though they had two full days to metabolize anything that may have been in their systems."

"Have they been x-rayed?" Mulder asked.

Harmon raised his eyebrows, shook his head. "No one had any evidence of fractures." 

"I'm not looking for broken bones." 

Harmon gave Scully a helpless glance. 

No, she decided, he wasn't going to humiliate her in front of local law enforcement by having her ask about alien implants. Instead, she said, "Sheriff Harmon, do any of the girls have criminal records?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Agent Scully, they're just kids." 

"Any history of drug abuse?" 

"They're good kids."

"You don't think it's remotely possible that this is nothing more than a sensational cover story?"

"What are you thinking, Scully, that these girls threw a two day kegger in the woods?" Mulder's tone was derisive, dismissive. 

She stiffened. "I think it's a possibility that should be explored, yes." 

"We didn't find any, uh, paraphernalia, at the scene," Harmon said. 

"I'd be amazed if you found anything at the scene with the amount of people you have tromping around up there," Mulder groused. 

Harmon shrugged. "Folks are a little worked up. This kind of thing doesn't happen often around here."

"Fortunately not, for your sake," Mulder said.

"Mulder," Scully said, her voice low. She touched his arm.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark. Her stomach clenched at the expression on his face, at the barely restrained anger and fear that lurked just beneath the deceptively placid surface. She let her hand drop back to her side. 

Harmon cleared his throat. "Look, I, uh, you don't think it can be any of that Satan crap, do you? Because you hear about it all the time-- a nice town with a seedy underbelly, and--" 

"What makes you suspect Satanism?" Mulder pounced. 

"The place where the girls were found," Harmon said after a moment's hesitation. "It has a history." 

"You're talking about the bodies." 

"Well, yes." 

"Bodies?" Scully asked, feeling out of the loop and hating it.

"In 1985, a hunter found the remains of a woman and a small child hidden in a 55 gallon drum in the same general area where the softball team was discovered. They were never able to identify the victims." 

She was startled. "And you think this is related?"

"No," Mulder said, turning back towards Harmon. "I think, in this case, the location is just a coincidence." 

"People talk," Harmon said. 

"Yes, they do." Mulder seemed to mull over his own words for a moment. "I'd like to speak with the girls. Individually. Can I get a list of addresses?"

"Yeah, sure. Let me get the paperwork." 

In Harmon's absence, Mulder turned towards a map of the county on the wall.

She stepped up beside him, following his gaze to the state park where the girls had been found. 

"Is there a particular reason you didn't call me?" she asked, wincing at how tired and contentious her voice sounded.

He gave her a petulant look. "Didn't want to waste your time on another wild goose chase." 

"Mulder--"

"Besides, I thought you might need a rest after your little excursion." 

Her dream rose in her mind like smoke and she shivered. It still smarted that she'd been so thoroughly duped, after years of carefully honing paranoia against the sharpest edge in the FBI. 

He'd been sullen and quiet since she'd returned empty handed. She'd caught him staring at her on several occasions in the days following, his face blank, his eyes guarded, searching.

She wasn't sure what he was hoping to find. Wasn't really sure she wanted to know.

She opened her mouth to respond, was cut off by Harmon's return. He handed her a stack of papers, the lives of nine girls in summary. 

"Let's start here."

*

10:00 AM

 

Connie Walters perched on the edge of her living room sofa, chewing a fingernail. She wore light denim jeans and a striped green sweater. Her dirty blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. 

"Connie," Scully said gently. "You're the youngest on the team, is that right?

She nodded, frowned, tucked her hands into her sleeves. "I'm a freshman. I just got called up varsity." 

"Do you have many friends on the team?"

She shrugged. "We spend a lot of time together." 

"That doesn't really answer the question." 

"What position do you play?" Mulder interjected.

Connie glanced up, brightened. "Shortstop." 

"That's a challenging position. How'd a freshman wind up playing shortstop on the varsity team?" 

She shrugged again, but this time it was less sulky and more shy. "I'm pretty good." 

"You must be," he said. He paused, gave her a searching look. "Do the other girls resent you, Connie?"

She fidgeted, picking at the hem of her sweater. "I was hoping we'd be friends. I loved to play." 

"Loved?"

"It's different now. No one likes me. Coach is really tough on us. The night that... it happened... she kept us out late running laps because we lost a game." 

Mulder leaned forward. "What happened that night, Connie?"

"I don't know." 

"What do you remember?" 

"Running." 

"Running where?"

"Nowhere," she said, and started to cry. 

*

Half an hour later, Connie sat on the couch staring quietly at the television. Her mother, Mary, offered two steaming cups of tea with a tight, wordless smile.

Scully took hers, wrapped her freezing hands gratefully against the hot porcelain. "Has Connie given you any indication that something has been bothering her?"

Mary Walters perched against the kitchen counter, face pale, dark smudges under her eyes. Her movements were quick, birdlike. "Connie has always been a challenge." 

"Has she displayed any worrisome behavior in the past few months?" Scully probed. "New friends, new habits, anything of the sort?"

"Are you trying to ask me if my daughter is on drugs?" Mary asked, meeting her gaze with a frank look. 

Scully blinked, ducked her head. "We're considering all possibilities." 

She heard Mulder clear his throat softly beside her. 

"I don't know," Mary said after a long pause, drawing her hands up to rest under her chin. "This entire experience has been a nightmare. I... I was so afraid I'd never see my little girl again." 

She stood up, dumped her own mug of tea into the sink, turned to face them with her hand over her mouth.

"Connie's father left when she was in elementary school and her brother was just a baby. She's..." she sighed. "There have been incidents at school. Outbursts."

"Recently?" Mulder asked.

She shook her head. "Sports seem to have balanced her. She was so proud of making the varsity team." She let her hand fall to her side. "I don't believe she's mixed up in anything she shouldn't be. She wouldn't jeopardize her spot on the team." 

"What if she were trying to fit in with the other girls?" Scully asked. "She is the youngest on the team, correct?"

"The other girls are athletes," Mary said. "If you'd seen the way Coach Sommers works them, you'd understand. There's just no room for anything else." 

*

Alexandra Pitt was heavyset, with close-cropped strawberry blond hair and a face full of freckles. She fidgeted when she talked, and had a deep, engagingly contagious laugh. 

"She runs us into the ground," she said. "But she loves us anyway." 

She sobered, pulling her feet up onto her chair and tucking her knees under her chin. "I don't remember what happened. So you don't need to ask." 

"What's the last thing you remember?" Scully asked gently. 

Alex shrugged, offered a half smile. "I drank some Gatorade. I was so tired from running that I just chugged it down. It was cold, and I was exhausted. It hit me hard. I was afraid I was going to throw up." She frowned, dropped her feet back to the floor. "I can't remember if I did or not." 

"Do you remember seeing anything?" Mulder asked. "Lights?"

She hesitated, shook her head quickly. "It's like someone flipped a switch." 

*

Danielle Johnson, seventeen, impossibly tall and remarkably put-together for a girl who'd been through any sort of ordeal, did not sit down as they spoke with her. She paced from room to room, leaning on windowsills, leaning against walls, peering into mirrors. 

She touched her own face, the faint dark circles under her eyes, ran fingers through thick dark hair. 

"I've never not remembered," she said. 

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked. 

"I never put myself in situations where I don't have control. You get what I mean? I've never been drunk. I've let people think I am, but I never actually am. You know?" 

"Not remembering," Scully said. "It frightens you." 

"Yes," Danielle said. "I was running next to that idiot freshman. She fumbled a play in the ninth inning, lost us the game. It's why Coach made us stay late. She was whining about the test she had to study for." 

"And then?" 

"Nothing," Danielle shook her head. "But you know the weird thing?"

Mulder seemed to visibly perk up. "What?"

"I feel good." She laughed. "Really good. Like I can do anything. You know?" 

Scully, tired, headachy, and more than a little pissed off, certainly did not know. But she gave the girl an encouraging look.

"I feel like flying," Danielle said. She held her arms out at her sides, gave her hands a wave. She laughed. 

"Have you felt this way since waking up?" Mulder asked.

She thought for a moment, shook her head. "No. I felt like crap last night in the forest. But it's been getting better." 

Scully studiously attempted to avoid Mulder's eye, failed, met his gaze. His face was guarded, serious. 

"Like flying," Danielle whispered.

*

6:38 PM

 

Scully made her way out of the ninth suburban home and into the steady drizzle and gathering darkness. The damp, chill air cut through her trench coat. 

The names had begun to blur together. Connie and Danielle and Alexandra and Jill and Jaime and Jennifer and Alicia and Kimberly and Lauren. Nine girls with a secret, and they no closer to figuring out what it might be.

"Connie is the weak link," she said, without checking to see if Mulder had followed her. "The other girls don't like her, and she knows it. If anyone is going to come clean, it will be Connie." 

"I'm not so sure," Mulder's voice was close to her ear. He unfurled an umbrella, held it over her head. 

"Mulder, they're obviously hiding something."

He looked unconvinced. "I think they genuinely don't remember what happened to them." 

"Maybe they don't want to remember," she said. 

"There's only one person who seems to have a clear recollection of what happened that night." He stepped away from her, leaving her standing in the rain. 

She grimly followed after him as they neared the car. "You still believe this is aliens?"

"I haven't heard anything to make me think otherwise." 

*

Connie Walters sat alone on the living room sofa, staring out the window at the thick fog. Across the street, she could barely make out the blur of their neighbor's porch light. She shivered. 

"Honey? Are you okay?" Her mother approached from behind, smoothed her hair. 

"Yeah," she said. "I feel weird. Tired." 

"Why don't you go lie down for a little while?"

Connie gave a grateful smile to her mom. "Yeah, okay." 

She climbed the stairs to her room, her hand trailing over the banister. If she thought really hard, really reached back into the blank spot that was her memory, she could feel the burn in her lungs, the coppery taste in the back of her throat, and rubbery exhaustion in her legs. 

There was something else there too, on the edge of memory. Rage. White hot, boiling anger.

She sighed, lay down on her bed. Her softball mitt was on the floor. She picked it up, slipped it on. It was all comfortable worn leather, molded perfectly to her hand. 

She looked at her hand, at that perfect fit, and thought about quitting. She groaned, rolled over and sat up. Rummaged under her bed for a worn softball, tossed it gently in the air, caught it in her glove with a snap. 

She probed a little deeper into her own head, into the curious absence where her memory should be. 

Sweat. Gatorade. Danielle humoring and then rejecting her. Coach with her ever-present scowl.

What then?

Lights? Some kind of noise? 

Her head ached and she flopped back against her bed, shutting her eyes. Her right hand felt for the softball in her glove, closed around it. She lobbed it up in the air, caught it. Lobbed it again. 

Coach, embarrassing her. Making the team run more laps on her account. 

She lobbed the ball again, caught it with a fierce snap. 

Someone screaming. 

The ball disappeared into the ceiling, leaving a perfect round hole in its wake. A fine powder drifted down onto her face, making her cough, spit, roll to the side. 

Over her head, she could hear the softball ricocheting around the attic like a mad pinball. Connie sat up, gaping at what she'd done, her heart pounding. 

A moment later the clatter of feet on the stairs, her mother's worried face at the door. "Connie?"

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up. "I don't know what came over me." 

Her mother looked up at the ceiling, then back at her face, and it was the time in school all over again, after the incident with the book. The disappointment, the unspoken worry.

"It's all right," her mother said after a long pause. "You've had a difficult few days. We all have." 

Connie wanted to scream, wanted to rage and throw things and break things, wanted to feel that heavy gathering rushing power in her hands again. 

Because suddenly, she didn't feel like a girl who'd had a difficult few days. She felt good. 

Really good.

*

7:25 PM

 

Janice Sommers, known to the Manchester High softball team simply as "Coach", was a trim woman in her early forties. She wore her hair in a neat, no-nonsense ponytail. 

Her house was sparsely furnished. Large television, plain brown sofa, no knick-knacks of any kind. Framed team photos on the walls. A small bookcase populated with recipe and self-help books. 

She led Mulder and Scully to her kitchen, offered them tea. Scully wondered how many mugs of tea one person could be expected to drink in one day. 

"I've already told Sheriff Harmon everything I know," she said, lifting a beverage to her lips and taking a slow swallow. 

"You believe that the Manchester High varsity softball team was abducted by aliens." Scully tried to keep the edge out of her voice. By the look Mulder shot her, she guessed she'd failed.

Coach Sommers did not seem fazed by her tone. She shrugged, smiled. "I'm fully aware of how crazy this must sound. But what else could it have been?" 

Scully sighed, shifted in her seat. "Ms. Sommers, you say the girls disappeared from the field somewhere around 9:30 PM?" 

"That's right." 

"Why would you have the girls out so late on a school night?"

The other woman smiled patiently. "My team has been division champions nine years in a row. That kind of record demands a certain level of dedication. My girls and their families are all aware that certain sacrifices need to be made for the good of the team."

"Can you describe the events leading up to their disappearance, Ms. Sommers?"

"Call me Jan," she said. "And I already told Sheriff Harmon everything I know."

"Humor us," Mulder said, shooting her his winningest smile. 

"I can't even tell you both how grateful I am that they have all been returned safely," she said, setting her drink down and dabbing the corners of her eyes with a napkin. "When I came to, and realized they were gone... you don't know the horror that I felt." 

"I'm sure it was very upsetting," Scully said calmly, leaning forward and handing the woman a box of tissues. "But if you could just walk us through the events, one more time." 

"I had just called an end to practice. The girls were coming in from the field." She gave them a thin, tight smile. "The sky lit up. The girls started screaming. It was terrible. I ran towards them, I wanted to *shield* them, but I lost my footing. I must have hit my head." She touched her temple and smiled ruefully. "When I awoke, they were gone."

Scully watched Mulder watching the coach. He kept his face mild, expression unreadable. But she knew him well enough to know the very fact that he wasn't hanging on the coach's words with wide-eyed enthusiasm was tantamount to dismissal. 

"I failed them, agents. They were my responsibility and I failed them." 

"Fortunately, this story has a happy ending," Mulder said. 

She nodded, smiled, took another tissue. 

He and Scully left the small, tidy house, stepping back into the nighttime gloom. 

"She's lying," Mulder said quietly as they moved towards the car. 

"Yes," Scully agreed. "But why?"

*

Alex Pitt shrugged out of her father's embrace and stood awkwardly against the wall. Her father had not seemed able to stop hugging her from the moment he'd burst into her hospital room on Saturday night, all wild-eyed and frantic at the sight of her. 

"I'm fine," she insisted. 

"You should stay home tomorrow," he said. "Rest."

"No," she shook her head. "I should go to school. It'll be weird if I don't." 

"You've been through a trauma." 

"I don't know what I've been through," she said. "I don't remember." 

"Alex--" 

"I'm going to lie down," she said. "I feel weird." 

She turned away from his suffocating concern, moved down the hall to her room, her head throbbing. Something she was forgetting, something she hadn't been able to tell the FBI agents. Something about running, and *screaming*--

Dizzy, she shut her eyes, groaned, leaned a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her hand disappeared into the drywall like a hot knife through butter. A framed picture tilted and fell, glass shattering on the wood floor.

"Alex?" Her father came running. "Alex, what did you do?"

She looked down at her own hand, and then at the hole in the wall, heart pounding, eyes wide. "I don't know." 

*

8:45 PM

 

They found themselves sharing a booth in a greasy diner, she sipping water and trying to pretend that she wasn't still angry, he gulping soda and trying to pretend that he didn't notice her charade. 

He seemed moody, lost in thought, and she was grateful to be spared small talk about alien abductions. 

She wondered at the motivations behind his disappearing act. He'd almost certainly wondered at the motivations behind hers.

He didn't quite seem to accept her explanation.

He picked quietly at the fries on his plate, not eating much. Occasionally he glanced across the table at her, seeming on the verge of speaking, but never saying a word. 

She felt closeness eroding between them, did not know what to do to stop it. The Cancer Man had lived up to his moniker, infecting something she'd thought untouchable. 

"I'm tired," Mulder said, pushing his half eaten dinner aside and standing up. "I'd like to get out to the softball field early tomorrow morning."

"Why?" She stood up as well, shrugged into her trench coat. 

"To look for signs of alien activity." 

She did not respond, but let a frustrated breath hiss out between her teeth. 

He looked at her, did not say a word. Put on his coat.

They drove to the motel in silence.

*

"Coach," Danielle whispered into the phone. "Something's happened." 

"I've already heard from Alex. And Jill." 

"What's happening to us? What does this mean?" 

A long pause. "I don't know. But we'll discuss it at practice tomorrow." 

"My parents don't want me to practice. They want me to rest." 

"Is that what you want, Danielle?"

"No." 

"Good."

*

MONDAY  
7:30 AM

 

There was a weak morning sun in the sky. Dew still clung to the blades of grass in the outfield. Scully walked beside the big wooden scoreboard, wet grass soaking the hem of her pantsuit and sending a chill creeping up her legs. 

"What are we looking for?" she asked, trying to keep from sounding overly impatient. 

"Obvious signs of alien activity," Mulder called from where he crouched at the pitcher's mound. 

"Of course," she muttered. "Were you expecting crop circles in the outfield?"

He gave her a sour look, paused, crouched down. "This is weird." 

She made her way towards him, noting the torn up grass, the cleat marks in the damp clay. He was studying a dark patch in the dirt. 

"This look like blood to you?" He asked.

She joined him, frowned. "I'm not sure. The ground is pretty uniformly wet from yesterday's rain." 

He reached out and put two fingers in it, as she'd known all along he would do. 

One day that'll be battery acid, Mulder, she thought.

He lifted the grit to his nose, sniffed. "Smells vaguely fruity," he said, frowning. "Gatorade, maybe. Or some other kind of sports drink." 

"Not that weird, after all," she said, standing up. "Alex Pitt said they were drinking Gatorade when... whatever happened." 

Still crouching, he peered up at her. "Something doesn't add up." 

"It doesn't," she agreed.

They stayed like that for a moment, sizing each other up. 

"You think this is a waste of time," he said finally, sighing. 

He wanted her to disagree, she knew. Wanted some justification for haring off on his own to chase lights in the sky.

She thought about the slap of water against wood, of pressing her cheek against the rough damp motorboat floor, the crack of gunfire, the sudden certainty that she'd been brought there to die, that she might never see him again. That whatever had been slowly brewing between them this year would dry up and disappear, unexplored, regretted. 

How alarming, yet how stunningly fitting it was to realize that her last thoughts were of him, and not of her own self preservation. 

He was still looking at her, his face pinched, pained. She knew she'd wounded him, knew that he only turned prickly and cold and defensive to mask that hurt. 

"Scully?" he asked, his voice shattering the long silence. 

"It's not a waste of time," she said, feeling very tired. "Something happened to those girls."

He stared down at the puddle of Gatorade tinted mud. 

"I'll have it tested," she said, as he produced an evidence bag from his suit pocket. She took it from him, scooped some of the sticky, red-stained clay. 

She stood back up, squinting in the morning sun, felt his eyes on her. 

She followed him to the car.

*

Connie was draped over her desk, feet kicked out into the aisle, arms hanging over unopened text books. She propped her chin on her forearm, watched her teacher with heavy-lidded, disinterested eyes. 

Her toe nudged the backpack of the girl across the aisle from her, who reached down and snatched it up off the floor with a sour look. 

Someone poked her in the shoulder and she turned around. 

It was Jason, the boy who sat behind her. He gave her a weak smile. 

"You okay, Connie? You're acting kind of weird." 

"Fine," she said dismissively, turning around. The teacher was droning on and on at the board. The classroom was hot. She could hear her classmates breathing in dull, heavy snuffs. She wanted to be on the field. 

"Do you remember anything?" Jason persisted, leaning forward so his hot breath puffed in her ear. "From what happened?"

She had been treated as a curiosity from the moment she'd pushed her way through the mob of photographers and walked through the doors to the high school. 

It was worse inside. Teachers and students alike stared at her. She was certain her teammates were receiving the same treatment but they were all older, all shared classes together. She was the only freshman. 

A banner hung in the lobby, welcoming the Manchester Varsity softball team home. Her teachers had handled her with kid gloves, not forcing her to participate, telling her it was okay, to take all the time she needed. 

If they knew how great she felt, how utterly and completely amazing, she doubted she'd be allowed to wallow loosely in her chair, blatantly uninterested in her surroundings. They certainly wouldn't be so concerned about her. 

Maybe they should be. 

The thought rose, unbidden, and she smiled. 

"Hey," Jason said, poking her with his pen again. "Do you remember--" 

"No." She turned around, looked him square in the eye. "I don't remember anything. I already talked to my mom, to the police, to the FB-fucking-I. If I couldn't tell them anything, I don't know why you think I'd bother to tell you." 

He goggled at her.

Her anger collected, seemed to flow through her limbs in a beautiful hot rush. She leaned back, gave the top of his desk a light shove.

The desk, chair and Jason spilled over into the aisle with a clatter. Books exploded open as they hit the ground, papers fluttering like confetti through the air. 

At the front of the room the teacher froze, dropped her chalk. 

"Jason?" she took two faltering steps forward. "Jason, what on earth--"

He was struggling to his feet, his legs tangled in the rungs of his chair. He looked clumsy, ungainly, angry. His jeans were ripped, his knee bloody. His hands fisted at his sides.

Someone giggled. 

He looked at her, red-faced, eyes bulging. "You-- you--" 

She gazed impassively back at him as the teacher finally made her way over to the scene of the crime. 

"Jason--" their teacher started.

"SHE PUSHED ME!" His voice cracked. 

Another giggle from the room. Girls exchanging smirks. 

"Jason," their teacher admonished. "No one pushed you." 

He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, his face bright red. He snatched books from the floor, moved towards the classroom door in halting, stumbling steps. 

Connie watched him go, a faint smile on her face. She thought about how funny it would be if he tripped, if he went down just like that in front of everyone. 

Jason stumbled, stepping on his own flapping shoelace. He lurched forward, crashing hard onto his cut knee, groaning. The books slid out of his hands. 

There was a moment of silence, then the low building roar of laughter. Connie joined in. 

She had felt it, the same glorious hot anger that had given her the strength to topple his desk with a swat of her hand. Only, this time it hadn't just been in her arms. She'd felt it extend forward, a tangible tendril, at her thought. 

And then he'd fallen. 

This had interesting possibilities. 

*

"I've seen UFOs over Bear Brook woods, loads of times." 

The old man raised his coffee mug with trembling hands, sucking in the dark liquid with wet slurping sounds. 

Scully grimaced, looked away. Mulder was sitting close beside her in the cramped booth, his elbows on the table. He was smiling, eyes bright. 

Outside, the warming sun continued to burn off residual fog. 

The man let the empty mug slap against the table like a drunk banging for another shot. 

"Want some breakfast?" Mulder asked. 

The man nodded eagerly, and Mulder flagged down a waitress. Soon they were ordering plates of pancakes, sides of bacon, more coffee, toast. 

Oh Mulder, she thought, where do you *find* these people? 

It happened wherever they went. Like moths to a flame, the fringe of society would gather around her partner. A parade of freaks and weirdos, lunatics and true believers. Did he seek them out, or did they find him with some sort of cosmic GPS? 

"I'm not surprised they took those girls," the man said around a mouthful of flapjacks. 

"Why is that?" Mulder asked, leaning in.

"Because of the breeding programs."

She looked over at her partner, caught his eye, saw a flicker of amusement there, behind the wide-eyed interest. He was an oddity himself, at home amongst these outsiders. 

She was not sure what that said about her. 

"It makes sense," the old man continued. "Nine girls, peak physical condition. Mark my words, in nine months this town is gonna be a lot more crowded." 

Her life was finite, ticking towards an eventual, inevitable end. She would count this day, this conversation, among the countless moments that form a lifetime. 

This is what I've done with my life, she thought.

*

3:30 PM

 

They tore up the dirt with their cleats as they ran laps.

They did not complain, as they might once have done. Their breath came evenly, no panting, no exhaustion, no pain. They ran with bright eyes, exhilarated smiles, flushed cheeks. 

They ran because it felt good to run, like they could go on forever.

Behind the backstop, photographers for local newspapers crowded in, shutters clicking.

Danielle kept looking over at them, tossing her hair. 

"Pair up," Coach hollered from her perch on the pitcher's mound. "Ground ball drills." 

The girls trotted in from the field, already pairing off. Connie was not surprised to see that no one had chosen her. She was, as always, the odd one out. 

She was simultaneously amazed and unsurprised at the athletic abilities her teammates were manifesting. Already athletes in good physical condition, suddenly they'd all found themselves able to run faster, throw harder, swing bats with enough force to turn even weak pop flies into home runs. 

She took her place on the line next to Alex, forcing Danielle to throw ground balls to both of them in turn. 

They were remarkable. 

But none of them seemed to do anything more. None of them seemed to be able to reach out with their minds and touch things. 

At least, not that they'd shown. 

Danielle flung a grounder at her, the ball bouncing wildly off of the dirt. Connie dropped to one knee, her reflexes taking over, felt the ball snap into the pocket of her glove. She leapt to her feet, fired it back. 

She felt unstoppable. 

*

They'd spent the afternoon in the public library, poring over old newspapers, searching for disappearances, anomalies, baseball scores. 

She caught Mulder absently doodling a UFO in a margin, over an article about an attempted kidnapping, swatted his hand away with a casual tenderness. He gave her a look like he was surprised she'd even noticed.

"Mulder," she'd said finally, hoping that from her tired utterance of his name he'd infer that Manchester, New Hampshire had no particular storied history of alien abduction, of UFOS or anomalies, no pattern for this newest mystery to slide into like a missing puzzle piece. 

He'd met her eyes across the polished walnut of the library table, looked away. Pushed another newspaper towards her. 

*

Connie emerged from the late bus into the darkening evening, cheeks flushed. She ran for the front door of her house the way she used to as a child, backpack flapping. 

Her mother was in the kitchen, slicing a carrot. 

Connie skidded to a halt on the linoleum floor, grinning. "Mom," she breathed, her voice electric. 

Her mother jumped, dropped the carrot she'd been slicing. It bounced from the counter to the floor and rolled under the kitchen table. 

"Connie," she said, rushing forward, grabbing her daughter, running a hand over her flushed, sweaty face. "Connie, my god, what's wrong?"

Connie giggled, feeling feverish, giddy. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. Tell Buddy to get his glove. I want to play catch." 

"Catch?" Her mother shook her head. "You just had practice. Are you sure you're all right? You look ill." 

"BUDDY!" Connie turned back towards the stairs. Her skin was hot to the touch. She felt electric, wired, humming with life.

Her little brother appeared, blinking down at her with solemn eyes. 

"Get your glove," she said. 

"Aw, you throw like a girl," he replied, but she could see that he was pleased. He ran for his room, came back clutching his mitt. 

"Come on," she urged, running for the back door, skidding out onto the damp lawn, breathing in great gulps of humid air. The fog had come rolling back in with the approach of evening. Seconds later the screen door slammed and Buddy came careening out after her. 

Their mother followed, wringing her hands. 

Buddy picked up a baseball and launched into an exaggerated pitcher's stance, winding up and hurling the ball at his sister. She laughed, caught it easily, moving with a startling speed and grace. 

No wonder she made varsity at fifteen, Mary Walters thought wonderingly. 

Connie flicked her wrist, no more than a tiny movement, but the ball whipped across the yard and cracked into the pocket of Buddy's glove. He yelped, dropped the mitt, shook his hand. 

"That stung!" he yelled.

"Baby," she teased back. 

Buddy threw the ball back, not bothering with a wind-up this time, just letting it fly. 

Connie jumped for it, caught it easily, whirled on one foot and sent it screaming back to him. The air seemed to whistle with its force. 

He cringed away at the last second, and the ball went sailing off into the shadows. 

"Who throws like a girl now?" Connie laughed.

"Connie!" Mary scolded, stepping forward. 

Buddy darted off into the gathering night, a small pale face amidst lengthening shadows. 

"Don't scare your brother." 

Connie turned towards her mother, smiling, showing her teeth. "He said I throw like a girl." 

"You are a girl. Try to remember that." 

Buddy emerged from the trees, holding the ball aloft. He hurled it, the throw wild, sailing over Connie's head. 

She stretched her arm in the air and the ball seemed to change direction, to bend in the air, to arc with frightening precision right into the pocket of her glove. 

Connie turned towards her mother, beaming. Her eyes were very wide, pupils dilated in the purple dusk. 

"I am amazing," she said.

*

END CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

*

Scully flopped, face down, on her motel bed without bothering to remove her suit jacket. The scratchy comforter rubbed against her cheek and she buried her face in her pillow. Her head ached, her vision swam with grainy black and white photos and smudged newsprint. And Mulder, of course. He with his quiet meaningful looks she was somehow expected to interpret.

Almost immediately, as she'd known it would, a knock came on the door. 

She debated not answering it, but she knew he'd only find some other way in under one pretense or another. 

So she went to the door, rumpled, tired, and small without her heels on. He stood in the doorframe, eyes bright with the manic look she always associated with trouble. 

"I just received an interesting call," he said, brushing past her without asking if he could come in. He moved to her window, pulled the curtains shut. 

She crossed her arms. "An interesting call from whom?"

"Connie Walters' mother." He grinned, sat down on her bed. "She says that Connie has been acting very strange since she returned." 

"She's a teenage girl who has been through a terrible ordeal," Scully protested. "I'd be more surprised if she wasn't acting weird." 

"Most traumatic experiences don't leave you with telekinesis." 

She scowled, feeling sluggish, left behind, and hating it. "Who said anything about telekinesis?"

"Mary Walters, just now." 

"Why didn't you say that when you came in?"

"I just did." His smile had faded and he was watching her cautiously. 

"You said she'd been acting strange." 

"And then I said--" 

"Dammit, Mulder," she hissed. "Stop it. Stop dropping clues like little breadcrumbs you expect me to follow. Either tell me the whole story or don't bother." 

He stood up, all good humor gone. "Sorry for disturbing you." 

"Mulder--"

He stopped halfway out the door, whirled around. "You're the one who came up here. I didn't ask for your help." 

"Then why are you looking for it now?" She stepped forward, crowding him.

He stood, looking down at her, breathing hard, holding back, jaw tightened in his silent sullen way. Swallowing whatever he'd been about to say. He'd swallowed a lot of words in the last few days. 

She slammed the door on his suddenly astonished face-- he had to jump back to avoid losing his fingers-- turned, went into the bathroom and slapped the faucet on to full blast. She splashed cold water on flushed cheeks and stared into the mirror, temples throbbing. The weight of silence and unspoken words had pressed in ever since seeing his face turn guarded and cautious, since seeing him close off. All that hard earned trust, up in smoke. 

Could it be that easy? One tiny tug on one tiny thread to unravel seven years worth of carefully woven tapestry? 

He appeared in the bathroom doorway, blotting out the light from the hallway. She had not even heard him enter. Her eyes swept his face, took in the five o'clock shadow, the mussed hair, the dark circles under his own eyes. 

She looked away. "Mulder--"

"What do you want?" he asked. His voice was raw.

She frowned, leaned against the sink, folded her arms over her chest.

She could read his every expression like well worn pages of a favorite book. He was full of questions, she knew. 

They exchanged declarations of trust the way that others exchanged declarations of love. They might omit, they might avoid, they might dance around the truth at times but they didn't lie to each other. Not directly. 

Something fragile had been corrupted, poisoned, she could feel it slowly decaying right there in the room, beating with its own faint fading pulse. And his questions remained unasked, hanging there in the silence between them.

"I could have helped you," he said finally. "I could have followed. I could have--"

"If you had followed me, we'd both be dead," she swallowed hard.

"I don't believe that."

"I recorded everything, Mulder. The fact that my tapes never reached you means that I was already being followed every step of the way."

He shook his head, but she could see by the sag in his shoulders that the fight had gone out of him. She felt the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink against her back, through the thin material of her shirt.

"You've got to stop this," she said. 

"This is exactly what he wanted." He gave a vague wave of his hand.

"Then you're just playing his game."

"You think you can put this on me, Scully, but you're wrong."

"Why, because I made a decision without consulting you? Because I decided to follow a lead on my own?"

"You weren't on your own."

She lifted her head, tilted her chin towards him with a little defiant jerk of her head. "I believed I was doing the right thing."

I was scared, he didn't say. She knew it, had scented the fear rising off of him like a cornered animal from the moment she'd returned home. Fear turned him inward, silent, judgmental. She felt it and knew it and still could say nothing. Instead, she heard him let out a hiss of breath between his teeth, watched him watching her.

She met his troubled gaze, tried to smile. 

He didn't smile back. Instead, he stepped forward, cupped her face, gave a little resigned sigh. She leaned against his touch, his rough palm warm and comforting against her heated cheek. 

Something flickered in his eyes and before she could identify it he had closed the small gap between them, pressed his lips to hers. He gave her no warning, no slow approach, no time to pull away.

She felt a sudden shocked jolt of heat, parted her lips even as her brain short-circuited with warning signals. He slid his hand into her hair, yanked her close, crushed her to him. She could smell his aftershave, taste mint on his breath. Her heart thudded in her chest, her hands clawed at his back, wanting him closer, closer. 

He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes heavy-lidded. His breath was ragged. "You're still breathing," he said. She wondered if he was trying to convince her or himself.

"So are you," she said.

He kissed her again, gentler this time. His breath puffed warm against her lips. 

"Mulder," she said. 

Her hands found his face, cradling him, running her thumbs down his cheeks. He sighed and nuzzled against her, pressing soft kisses against her temple. 

"This is a bad idea," she mumbled against his skin. Not here, she thought, not angry like this. But she made no move to pull away.

He murmured in agreement, his lips finding hers again. The warm solid length of his body crowded her, pressing her back against the cracked formica countertop. His hand roamed up the back of her shirt, warm fingers splaying against her bare skin. She gasped at the contact, nipped the side of his neck. He groaned. 

"Scully," he said. 

He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her, carried her from the bathroom. Her legs curled around his waist, her hip bumped into the doorframe, she laughed against his mouth. 

They fell together onto the bed, all scratchy blankets and musty pillows and creaky springs. His hands were everywhere. She arched up to meet him, craving the contact, suddenly desperate to press against every available inch of his skin.

He let out a shuddering breath and looked down at her with such naked longing that she felt her heart constrict. I didn't know, she thought wildly at first-- and then, I knew, I know, I'm sorry. 

Instead of speaking her runaway thoughts, she grabbed at the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it up over his head. He smiled, shut his eyes, gasped as her hands trailed down his back, thrust against her. It was too much. It wasn't enough. She wanted to wipe the slate clean, to purge the phantom scent of smoke from her skin.

The ringing of the phone was so jarring, so utterly unexpected that for a moment she couldn't identify the sound. His fingers, tangled in the buttons of her shirt, halted.

Reality came surging back into unwelcome focus. A dingy motel room with orange carpets. The rattle of an inefficient air circulation unit. The shrill intrusion of the phone on the nightstand. 

"Dammit," Mulder sighed, pressing a small kiss against the corner of her mouth. He gave her a brief, searching look before rolling off of her and onto his back, shutting his eyes.

She leaned over him, grabbed the phone. "Yes?" 

She was all too conscious of the length of his body next to hers, the heat rising from his skin, the rapid sound of his breathing. She thought if she listened hard enough she might even be able to hear his heart jack hammering in his chest. 

Instead, what she heard was the voice of the Manchester medical examiner. "Agent Scully, we ran the tests you requested on the dirt sample from the softball field." 

"Oh?" She struggled to calm her breathing, to sound professional. "What did you find?"

Next to her, she heard Mulder exhale softly, a small sigh. He stirred, sat up, reached for his t-shirt. His sudden absence left a pocket of cool air, and she missed the heat of him. 

"It was Gatorade, as you suspected. But we found traces of chloral hydrate." 

"Chloral hydrate," Scully echoed. "The girls were drugged?"

"It's impossible to determine that conclusively at this point. But if they were drinking from that Gatorade cooler, all signs point to yes."

She hung up the phone slowly, turned towards Mulder. He stood by the door, dressed, watching her, his expression hard to read. His eyes were dark, his hair mussed. 

"Mulder," she said, suddenly conscious of the fact that she was still on the bed, clothes askew. She stood up, smoothed her hair.

"It's not aliens," he said.

"Not unless they feel the need to drug their victims before abducting them," she agreed. "This is something else." 

"I think we need to pay Coach Sommers another visit," he said, reaching for the door. "This time with a warrant." 

"Mulder," she said again, suddenly helpless, floundering at the loss of him. 

He smiled at her, a real smile, a sweet one that reached his eyes. "You said it yourself, Scully, this was a bad idea." He slipped out the door and was gone. 

She stared at the door for a moment, incredulous. Just when she thought he'd run out of ways to shock her. 

What the hell was that? What the hell had just happened?

She hastily put herself back together, smoothed her clothes, ran a brush through her hair, glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her chin was red where his stubble had scraped. 

When she stepped outside he was already in the car, engine running, radio on. 

She supposed she should be grateful he hadn't already driven off. 

*

Jan Sommers sat on her living room sofa, arms crossed, wordlessly watching as police crawled through her home, upsetting the order, overturning her neat, sparse belongings. 

Mulder pulled up a chair and sat across from her, speaking in a low voice. She shook her head, looked away. 

Scully moved out of the living room, past the kitchen where uniformed officers were rifling through drawers, and into a small office. 

Trophies lined the shelves. Framed team photos on the walls, smiling girls in every one. An uncluttered desk sat benignly in the middle of the room.

Scully moved towards the desk, donned plastic gloves, switched on the computer monitor. The Windows logo danced on a black background. She sat in the chair, opened drawers, rifled through papers. 

Someone cleared their throat behind her, and she glanced up to see Mulder leaning in the doorway. He stepped into the room as they made eye contact, moved cautiously towards her. 

"Find anything?"

She did not reach up and touch the irritated skin on her chin, her lips, did not touch her face in any way. Instead she shook her head, occupied her hands in the drawer. 

"They'll have to confiscate her computer. Check the emails." 

She jiggled the mouse, chasing the screensaver away. 

"Did she tell you anything?" Scully asked, looking anywhere but at him. 

"She says she's not surprised the government is attempting to cover up what is clearly an alien abduction," he said. 

She glanced up, glimpsed a wry smile on his lips. 

"Called herself a patsy," he added. 

She turned back towards the computer, opened Jan's email program with a few clicks of the mouse.

The contents were unremarkable. Newsletters. Mailing lists. Sports tips. A few mildly flirty exchanges with a man named Ed who seemed to be the coach of the Nashua high school team. 

"There's nothing here," Scully said.

"Wait," Mulder said, his voice so close it made her jump. He leaned over her, put his hand over hers on the mouse. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and she cleared her throat, looked pointedly at the screen.

His breath ruffled her hair as he double clicked on one of the emails, its subject all in caps.

WOW BEST NEW FITTNESS ENHANCER RESULTS GUARANTEED!!!1!!

"Mulder, it's just spam," she protested. "They didn't even spell 'fitness' correctly." 

"Maybe," he said, but his voice was distant. 

"Synergy Athletics Co. presents a revolutionary new supplement guaranteed to improve athletic performance. Immediate results without the downsides of steroids," she read from the screen. 

He stepped back, looked deep in thought.

"Mulder," she said. "Thousands of people receive thousands of similar emails every day." 

"It says to call for more information." 

"Yes. Because they're trying to get your credit card information."

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, turned away.

She stayed seated for a moment, looking at poorly constructed sentences that would have meant nothing except for the fact that they'd wound up in a suspicious woman's inbox. 

It was almost certainly nothing.

She sighed, hit print. 

*

They drove in silence. Mulder's fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel. She resisted the urge to lay her head against the cool window glass. 

"Mulder," she said. 

He looked slightly panicky at her voice, clearly not wanting to be a captive audience to any kind of serious conversation. 

She could still smell him on her skin. 

Her voice came out all business. "Connie Walters' mother told you she was displaying telekinesis. I'd rather not wait until tomorrow to find out what that means."

He glanced over at her, nodded. She thought she saw relief on his face.

*

The Walters house stood, all lights blazing, a beacon to ward off the darkness. They walked close but did not speak as they moved up the driveway.

Mary Walters answered the door, her arm around her young son. "Connie is upset that I've called you. She thinks I'm exaggerating." 

Mulder crouched down, looked the boy in the eye. "Do you think she's exaggerating?" 

The boy, wide-eyed and solemn, shook his head.

"What's happening to my baby girl?"

"That's what we're here to find out," Scully assured her, moving into the cozy living space.

Connie Walters sat on the sofa, staring at the television with no apparent interest. She held a softball in her hand, gently tossing it up and down. 

She was smiling, and there was something unsettling about it. 

"Hi Connie," Scully said.

"Hello again," she said brightly, eyes shifting from the screen to their faces.

"Have you remembered anything about the last few days, Connie?" Mulder asked in a gentle voice.

"Nope." 

"Do you know why we're here?"

She sighed, dropped the softball on the floor. It thumped and rolled to a rest against the far wall. "You're here because my mother overreacted."

"Your mother seems to think that you've been displaying some unusual abilities."

"I was showing off. I threw a baseball at my brother. I apologized." 

"That's not what happened," Buddy Walters said, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

"I just... I had a good practice today. I came home with all this energy. So I wanted to throw a ball around." Connie stood up, held her hands in the air, turned in a circle. "That's it. End of story. Sorry to waste your time." 

Scully caught Mulder's eye, knew what he was thinking. The girl in front of them was displaying a radically different personality from the one they had met the previous day.

"Would you mind throwing a few balls my way?" Mulder asked, picking the softball up off of the floor and lobbing it gently at her. 

She caught it, turned it in her hands. "I'm tired. I have practice in the morning, before school."

"Humor me."

Connie groaned, picked up her mitt. "Fine. But I'll bet you throw like a girl."

*

The yard was cast in deep shadow. Mary Walters flipped a switch and flood lights illuminated a patch of grass framed by tall, mature trees. 

Scully stood on the porch steps, frowning. Mulder took his place under an oak tree, wearing Buddy Walters' too-small mitt on his left hand. He looked cocky and foolish in his suit and child's glove. 

Connie walked to the other side of the yard, moving slowly, casually. Above them, branches waved gently and leaves rustled in the damp night air. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, rubbed an irritated patch of skin behind her ear. 

"Ready when you are," Mulder said.

She shrugged, tossed the ball at him. He caught it easily, lobbed it back. 

"See," she said, throwing it to him. "Nothing's wrong."

"Put some oompf into it," he said.

"This is all I got," she said. "I'm a shortstop, not a pitcher."

"Pretend you're throwing someone out at first base."

She shrugged, threw him the ball. "There." 

"No wonder you guys lost your last game," he said, returning the throw.

"What?" She threw the ball, harder this time. It snapped into his mitt.

"I thought you said you were good." 

"Mulder," Scully said. 

"I am good." Harder this time.

He threw it back. "Maybe for Junior Varsity." 

Snap.

"I deserve my spot on the team."

Snap.

"The other girls don't think so." 

Snap.

"They're jealous."

Snap.

"Maybe they're just disappointed," he said.

Snap.

"Maybe you're just stupid," she spat.

Snap. 

"Ooh, trash talk. I hope you have something to back that up."

Snap. 

"I'm good," she said, her voice rising. 

Snap. 

If I were the coach, I'd cut you."

Connie's hand whipped and sent the ball spitting and sizzling through the air. Fast, too fast, impossibly fast. Mulder dove out of the way as the ball screamed past his head, and even as he moved a branch in the great tree above him gave way with a terrible crack, arcing down and swatting him off of his feet like a troublesome bug. 

He smacked against the deck railings, sagged loosely to the ground, a tangle of limp, uncoordinated limbs. 

Scully felt a bolt of real fear, jumped from the porch, dropped to her knees in the wet grass. 

The skin on his left temple was already beginning to purple. A wet leaf clung to his cheek. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned, smiled. "Guess I deserved that."

She touched his face gently, tilted his head to the side to get a better look at the bruise. 

"My god, are you all right?" Mary Walters had hurried over, pulling her sweater protectively around herself. "That tree-- it's been there for years-- I never thought--"

"Don't worry about it. Occupational hazard," Mulder said, struggling to his feet with some effort. 

Scully glanced over at Connie, who stood rooted to the spot across the yard. The girl was smiling, her teeth very white in the shadows. 

*

"I'm sorry," Connie said. "You made me mad. I threw it hard, like you asked." 

"Connie," her mother admonished.

"I said I was sorry. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again."

"No harm done," Mulder said, giving her a disarming smile. "I got a little carried away. You should pitch for the Yankees." 

Connie faltered, half smiled back, unable to hide her obvious pleasure at the compliment. "Red Sox," she corrected. "Never the Yankees."

"Red Sox," Mulder said. "Of course."

They made their way back to the car, Mulder climbing somewhat unsteadily into the passenger seat. He was grinning.

"I hope you don't have a concussion," Scully said, more than a little unsettled by the frozen grin on his face.

He kept smiling, waving out the window as they pulled away. As they turned the corner, his face turned serious. "Twenty bucks that Connie Walters is not the only girl suddenly displaying new talents."

"Mulder, I don't even know what we just witnessed back there. It was dark, and--"

"You saw her throw that ball," he said.

"I saw a high school athlete, who by her own admission is quite skilled, demonstrate her proficiency in her chosen sport." 

"High school athletes don't throw like that, Scully. Professional athletes don't even throw like that. And you're ignoring the fact that she also threw a tree at me." 

"These are old trees, vulnerable to the elements. In this case, Mulder, I hate to say it but I think you were just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You can rationalize it all you want, but you saw it. I made her angry, and she retaliated." He chewed his lip. "This changes things, Scully." 

Scully sighed, gripped the wheel. "What are you saying? That aliens did, in fact, abduct these girls and then sent them back to earth with telekinesis? For what possible purpose?"

"Maybe they're Manchester Varsity fans," Mulder said. He leaned his bruised head against the window. 

"Mulder--" 

"We have to find out what's causing this, Scully. We have to stop it." 

"We can't stop anything without knowing what happened to those girls. Someone drugged them, Mulder. Someone knows where they went. You said it yourself. We should be looking into Coach Sommers, not little green men."

She pulled into the motel parking lot, shut off the headlights, turned to look at him. He was earnest and glassy eyed under the street lamps. 

"You should go to the hospital," she sighed.

He shook his head, smiled. "You need sleep, Scully."

"And you need medical attention." 

"I'll get some ice from the machine."

She opened the door, stepped into the damp fog, stretched. The day felt like it had gone on forever. 

Mulder got out, slammed his door, touched the side of his head with a wince. "Putting that kind of power in the hands of a teenage girl is a frightening prospect."

"Believe it or not, I have seen 'Carrie'," she replied. 

"Think of Carrie at the prom. Then multiply that by nine."

She tried to force away that unpleasant thought as she moved to his side, wordlessly letting him lean on her as they walked down the hall. 

She opened the door to his room, switched on the light, led him inside. He came willingly, dropped onto the bed with a grunt. 

"I'll get the ice," she said.

"Thanks," he muttered into the pillow.

She returned with a bucket of ice, wrapped some in a scratchy motel towel, pressed it against the bruise on his head.

"You have to stay awake for a while," she told him, switching on the television, propping a pillow up behind his head. He sat up reluctantly, watched her with dark eyes. 

She perched on the edge of the bed, her arm barely grazing against his. Her scalp prickled at the contact.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice hoarse. She couldn't tell if he was pleased or panicked. 

"Making sure you stay awake." 

"I'm fine," he said, and yawned.

She shook her head, a smile quirking on her lips. "Two hours. If your headache doesn't get any worse, and you don't experience any double vision, I think you'll be okay." 

He fell silent, staring at the muted television. A cartoon cat chased a cartoon mouse in endless, violent circles. 

"Scully?" Mulder's voice was soft, drowsy. 

She tilted her head towards him, giving him a slow sad smile. 

He seemed to lose his words, shrugged under her scrutiny, turned his hands over so they were palms up on the bedspread, a small gesture of surrender. 

She shrugged back.

He reached for the remote, changed the channel on the silent television. 

Click. 

Infomercial.

Click.

Commercial.

Click.

A cooking show.

Click.

A harried reporter standing in front of a courthouse.

Click. 

Porn. 

He left it on the screen just long enough to make her nudge him, heard his soft chuff of laughter in response. 

Click. 

A lion, stalking a gazelle through tall grass. 

Click. 

Back to the cartoon mouse and the perpetually frustrated cartoon cat. 

Scully sighed, tilted her head from side to side in an effort to ease the crick in her neck. She looked at him, with his rumpled hair and his growing collection of scrapes and bruises. He was relaxed under the covers, eyes heavy but open, chest rising and falling with steady, even breaths. 

Click. 

Infomercial. 

Click. 

Sissy Spacek, streaked with gore, standing immobile on stage in her ruined pink dress. 

She glanced over at Mulder at the same time he turned to look at her. Their eyes met and he raised his eyebrows. 

"Coincidence," she murmured at him, but she smiled. He smiled back.

They sat, enraptured, as Carrie exacted her revenge. 

When the movie ended she stood, stretched, vertebra popping all along her spine. 

"Good night, Mulder."

"It hasn't been two hours," he said, shifting restlessly. That expression again, caught between panicky and pleased.

"I think you'll live." 

"Is that your medical opinion?"

She leaned towards him, flipping the bedside lamp on. He flinched at the sudden bright light. 

"Your pupils are responding normally," she said, switching the light off again, plunging them into darkness. "Good night, Mulder." 

She left his room without turning back, left him warm and pliant in his bed. He didn't ask her to stay.

*

It was impossible to sleep.

She gave up after an hour of lying in the dark, watching shadows play on the ceiling. Switched on the light, reached for the case notes, searched and searched for something that might make sense.

His hands on her skin, his mouth on her neck. 

She felt wired, electric, unable to focus. He'd pushed in, crossed boundaries, shaken her up and fled. He had been angry, then tender, then panicky and withdrawn. 

Up in smoke, she thought, and prayed she was wrong.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, paged through the notes. As the sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon, something caught her eye.

She reached for the phone.

He sounded wide awake, as if he'd been expecting her to call. Maybe he had been. 

*

TUESDAY  
6:30 AM

 

Coffee. Eggs. Dry toast. 

Mulder spoke while she picked at her breakfast, the bruise on his face standing out in sharp relief against pale skin. He seemed bright eyed, most definitely not concussed.

Manchester police had run Jan Sommers's phone history, he told her. Yes, she'd placed a call to the 1-800 number from the email, as he'd known she had. The records put the call on Tuesday evening, just two nights before the disappearance.

"It's not exactly a smoking gun," Scully said. 

"She doesn't deny making the call," Mulder admitted. "She said she was curious about the claims in the email, asked a few questions. She denies ordering anything from them."

"And she denies drugging the Gatorade, too, I assume?"

"That cooler would have sat on the bench through the whole game," Mulder said pensively. "Anyone could have had access to it." 

"Who else other than the coach would have an interest in slipping the girls something to improve performance?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I did a little digging. Synergy Athletics has a storefront not far from here. Up for a little trip?"

"Define 'not far,'" Scully said.

"Two hours, give or take. We'll be back in time for tonight's game." He stood up, shrugged into his jacket, grinning. "Something tells me we won't want to miss it."

"All right," she said. "But there's something I want to check first."

He paused, cocked his head, waited for her to continue.

"The man who found the girls. I can't find his name anywhere in the police report."

"No one seems to have gotten his name," Mulder said. He met her eyes, nodded slowly. A flash of acknowledgement on his face. "Harmon's deputy said the man was on a camping trip, and was just passing through when he found the girls. In all of the ensuing commotion, he just slipped away."

"Just slipped away," Scully echoed.

"It's suspicious," he admitted.

"Probably less suspicious when aliens were your primary suspects."

Still standing, he reached for a triangle of dry toast, tipped it in her direction. He didn't smile but he didn’t have to, it was in his eyes.

"Given the state of the crime scene by the time I got there, I can't really say I'm surprised," Mulder said finally. "Someone tipped off the media before they called the police. It was a circus."

"A lot of evidence gets destroyed that way," she said thoughtfully. "Tire tracks, footprints."

Slow realization bloomed on his face. She thought of him, standing amidst all of that chaos on an early Sunday morning, his back to the road, looking on with lips pursed as police and spectators and reporters alike trampled the crime scene. 

"It's probably nothing," she said, in a voice that meant anything but. 

"Probably," he agreed.

She stood, pulled on her coat, took the wedge of toast from his hand and popped it into her mouth. 

*

Something was wrong.

Connie knew it the moment she slid out of the passenger seat of her mom's car, walked towards the field in the hazy early dawn light. The other girls stood in a disorganized bunch, so unlike the military precise formations they usually took under Coach's guidance.

Coach wasn't there.

She was never late. Girls often whispered that she slept in the dugouts, made her home in the bleachers.

They practiced, as a team, before school on game day mornings. Always.

Danielle looked up, met her eyes as she approached the group. For once the older girl did not look unhappy to see her.

"Coach is late," Danielle said. She sounded worried, lifted her hand, rubbed behind her ear. 

"I'm sure everything's fine," Connie said, feeling she had to say something. 

Danielle gave her a look.

"Okay," Connie said, wilting a little bit. "It's weird." 

"Do you think it has something to do with what happened to us?" Jill, their center fielder, scanned the skies above them. 

"Probably," Connie said, suppressing a shiver. She pointedly kept her eyes straight ahead. 

"We don't know what happened to us," Danielle said. 

"It was something good," Connie murmured.

Danielle gave her a funny little smile. "Was it?"

Connie hesitated. "We're good," she said finally. "Aren't we?"

"We should run. Coach would want us to run." 

They locked eyes, the captain and the freshman, quiet understanding passing between them. 

They ran.

*

Bear Brook State Park  
7:45 AM

 

The bored twentysomething in the toll booth peered at them through hooded eyes. 

"I need a list of license plates for all vehicles that passed through this booth on Sunday night," Mulder said, flashing his badge. 

The attendant blinked. "I don't think I--" 

"Then get someone here who can."

He nodded, flushing, grabbed for the telephone. 

Scully stepped out of the car, stretched, looked up at the trees. Wondered what mysteries they'd silently witnessed over the years. Somewhere in thickets a bird chirped incessantly. 

"The Parks Commissioner is on his way," Mulder said behind her, his voice low, close to her ear.

"Good," she said.

"You think he dumped them here, then came back and played the hero?"

She turned to look at him, half expecting him to look mocking, or skeptical, as though somehow they had wound up in a world where UFOs and aliens were the rational explanation. But he only looked thoughtful, interested. She could see his brain eagerly struggling to connect the dots, to make leaps.

"I think it's worth investigating," she said. 

"Local paper says they received an anonymous tip. Could be our truck driver." 

"He calls the media, then waits a while and calls the police, thus ensuring that no one can maintain control over the scene." 

He nodded. "And in the ensuing chaos, he slips away, no one the wiser." 

"It's a good theory," she said with a little half smile, quirking an eyebrow.

He smiled back, taking the bait. "A good theory," he agreed. "But I'm still trying to figure out where the aliens fit in." 

*

"Do you think about it?" Jill asked as they walked in a loose group up the grassy hill towards the school. "About what happened to us?"

"What's the point?" Alex said. "I don't remember anything." 

"I think it's like what Coach said," Jaime, who played second base, said. She paused, looked up at the sky. "I dream about it sometimes. About those eyes."

Danielle rubbed her arms, shivered. "I don't like the idea," she said, and then looked away, as if embarrassed she had said anything.

"Whatever happened," Connie said, and eight heads swiveled to look at her, as though surprised she had opened her mouth. "It was a good thing. Look at us. Look at what we can do. If aliens did this, they gave us a gift." 

She tilted her head back, squinted into the morning sun, smiled. The hairs on her arm stood up. She hummed with life, felt like she could do anything. 

Danielle was smiling too, a cool, appraising smile but a smile nonetheless. "I think I may have underestimated you, freshman." 

And just like that, Connie felt the air change a little bit, become a little warmer. She kept on grinning as they made their way into the building, nine girls together instead of eight and one apart.

*

Harmon was red-faced, the kind of angry where men stumbled over their words and stood goggle eyed and clenched. 

Mulder had a habit of doing that to people.

"You think we missed something," he spat. "My men went over and over and over that crime scene--"

"They sure did," Mulder said. "Left no stone unturned, in fact." 

Harmon took off his hat and smacked it against his thigh. Scully stepped forward, giving her most polite smile, the one that often soothed feathers ruffled by Mulder's rough edges. 

"Sheriff Harmon, no one is insinuating anything. But we--"

"Then why do I get a call from Dale Jeffries at eight o'clock this morning, telling me that you're back here, poking around, asking about license plates? You think that UFO bothered to check in at the tollbooth here before dropping off those girls?"

She sighed. "I thought you suspected occult involvement, Sheriff." 

"You," he said, stabbing a finger in the air. "Led me to believe that wasn't a possibility." 

"It's not," she said. "But we haven't given up on investigating the human element."

"Like Jan Sommers, sitting in the county lockup? That the kind of human element you people mean?" 

"Ah," Mulder said.

"She's a friend. I found it more than a little distasteful to be rummaging around inside her house when she's as much of a victim here as those girls. And what I hear from my men this morning-- about running her phone records?" 

Scully glanced at her partner, read the expression on his face. "Sheriff, if we can track down someone, anyone, else who might have had contact with those girls on that night... it can only help her case." She spoke softly, appealing to reason. 

Harmon let air hiss out through his teeth. He slowly unclenched his fists. "She says it was aliens."

"Maybe they had help," Mulder said. 

Harmon turned away, jammed his hat back onto his head. He waved his hand at the man sitting in the passenger seat of his police cruiser. After a moment's hesitation, the man stepped out into the morning light, gave a hesitant smile. 

"Good morning," he said. "You must be the FBI."

*

Scully called in the plate numbers on the roster as they pulled onto the highway and drove north. 

Forty-seven cars had passed through the tollbooth between Thursday and Sunday. Nine were pickup trucks. Two of those pickup trucks were registered to local Manchester residents who would have been recognized at the scene. Of the seven remaining, only three were white.

She thanked Danny when he finished reading off the registration information to her, turned towards Mulder. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. 

"One of them is registered to a corporate address," Scully said. 

He caught the slightly playful tone of her voice and stayed silent, almost smiling.

"Do you know *which* corporate address?" She quirked an eyebrow at him. 

"One not particularly known for their brilliant marketing tactics?" 

"Bingo," she said. 

He nodded, smiled just a little. Cracked a sunflower seed between his teeth.

*

"Are you sure this is the place?"

They sat in the overgrown parking lot of a desolate industrial park. A collarless dog nosed at a discarded fast food bag on the sidewalk. 

Mulder did not answer her, pushed out of the car, stood stretching in the sunlight. He moved towards the building, three paces ahead of her in the time it took her to unhook her seatbelt and join him. 

He kicked at a tin can as they approached the quiet building. 

"Maybe the address--" she started, but fell silent as he turned to look at her. She could read every line of his face, every twitch in his muscles, every blink, every breath. 

He bent, picked up the can he'd been kicking along the asphalt, turned it over in his hands. As she stood blinking in the sun, he went to a darkened window, cupped his hand to glass. He glanced back at her, a sly look.

"Mulder--" 

He sneezed loudly, an exaggerated "Ahhh-choo!" and threw the can through the glass pane. Shards tinkled to the ground.

"Oops," he said, already leaning through the window to unlock the door. 

She could remind him that they needed a warrant, but when had he ever listened to common sense? Her choice was the same as it had always been, follow or be left behind. 

She followed.

Her boots crunched on broken glass as she stepped carefully into a dim hallway. A forlorn and abandoned reception desk sat to her left, drawers askew. She moved towards it, slid her finger along the wood. 

"There's nothing here," Mulder said, rounding the corner. He paused, noticed her by the desk. "What are you doing?" 

She held her finger up. "No dust, Mulder. This place hasn't been empty longer than a few days." 

Mulder rubbed his face with his hand, frowned. 

"What?" she asked him, because his look was one of more than simple frustration. 

"It all seems a bit hasty." 

She shrugged. "Maybe they got what they wanted." 

"Maybe," he said. His voice was distant, unconvinced. He started for the doorway. 

She followed, shutting the door behind her.

Mulder slid behind the steering wheel in the rental car, turned the engine over. He tapped the digital clock as she settled into the passenger seat. 

"After one already," he said. "We're cutting it close if we want to get a good spot in the bleachers." 

She was quiet as they pulled back out onto the highway, watching bland scenery flash by.

They had been on the road for nearly twenty minutes before she turned to him, frowning. "There's one thing bothering me about this." 

He raised his eyebrows. "Only one thing?"

She ignored his flippant tone. "Why? Why go through all the trouble of faking an alien abduction?"

"You know as well as anyone that once you start alleging alien abduction you lose a certain level of credibility, Scully." 

She glanced at him, thought she saw a hint of a smile.

"What if," he said, and she wondered how much of his life so far had hinged on those two words. 

She finished his sentence for him, her voice flat. "What if the United States government is attempting to create an army of telekinetic warriors? And rather than having their first tests go on the record, they decided to set up a little plausible deniability?"

"I, uh, wouldn't have used the term 'telekinetic warrior,' but that's the gist of what I’m thinking, yes."

She looked away, sighed.

Mulder smiled, gave a sardonic little laugh. "They just needed someone to pin it on, if anyone connected the dots." 

"A patsy," Scully said. Mulder met her eyes, nodded. 

"I'll bet she's not the only coach to receive that email," he said, fishing a sunflower seed out of his suit pocket. "But she may have been the first one to call the number."

"Where does this leave us, Mulder? Someone still spiked the Gatorade."

"And someone cleared out of that office building in an awful hurry." 

She frowned. "Maybe they just moved to a different location." 

"Or maybe they know something we don't." 

He met her eyes, cracked another seed between his teeth, pressed down on the gas pedal a little harder.

*

A reporter in a violently green blazer stood just behind the backstop, microphone in hand. Behind her, camera flashes lit up the bleachers like fireworks as the girls took the field. Another reporter took up residence on the first base line, smiling, perfectly coiffed. Two more battled for position in the outfield, cameramen struggling and shifting position in order not to get the other in frame. The crowd around the field was growing, a low din starting to build.

"...the heroic return of the Manchester girl's varsity softball team, whose disappearance..."

"...will play their first game since being discovered in the woods..."

"...the arrest of Coach Janice Sommers has left the girls without leadership tonight..."

"...still insist on playing the game..."

"...alien abduction stories..." 

Connie tugged her hat down over her eyes, sat on the bench, squinted and scowled and tried to look intimidating. 

The other team, girls in red jerseys, milled uncertainly on their side of the field, obviously a bit overwhelmed by the cameras and crowds. Uncomfortable with having been cast the villains in the day's story. 

"I'm going to be sick," Alex said. 

"Me first," Jill groaned. "Why are there so many cameras?" 

"Have a seed," Connie said, holding up the bag. "The salt helps."

Jaime and Jennifer were tucking ponytails into baseball caps, giggling and preening for the cameras. Kimberly had painted black streaks under her eyes, looking like she was ready for war. Lauren was stretching. Alicia was snapping a softball into her glove, quick little flicks of her wrist. 

Jill spit a sunflower seed shell onto the dugout floor. It hit the ground, bounced, landed. It trembled there, in the dirt and dust for a moment before spinning in a circle.

Connie glanced up sharply, first at Jill, who was staring off into space, and then at Danielle, who was looking right at the shell as it spun. And smiling. 

"You too," Connie breathed with a hot little flare of jealousy.

"All of us," Danielle said. "All of us." 

*

They took the field with no coach to direct them, moving to their designated positions with a fluid grace and sense of togetherness that even Connie could not suppress a little shiver of awe. 

Off the field they were nine girls. On the field, they were one. 

Danielle stood tall and poised on the pitcher's mound, one foot pawing the dirt like a spirited horse. Alex crouched behind the plate, holding her mitt up as a target for Danielle's scorching warm-up pitches. 

Connie watched the faces of the girls on the other team, was pleased to see that they were regarding Danielle with awe. She reached out a little bit with her mind, felt the air around her flex, sent the aluminum bats leaned against the other team's dugout wall clattering to the ground. The girl standing nearest them jumped to the side, crashed into her teammates, looked thoroughly rattled. 

"Ready to kick some ass?" Alicia called from first base. She threw the ball to Connie, who whipped it to Jaime on second, who sent it sizzling to Lauren on third. Behind them, the three outfielders, Jill, Jennifer and Kimberly, threw warm up pop flies to one another, laughing, showing off. 

Connie caught the ball as Lauren snapped it in her direction, grinned. "Ready." 

They did not see the aged white pickup truck pull into the crowded parking lot behind the backstop. 

*

Cars were parked on the grass, left haphazardly along the road, pulled across driveways. A steady stream of people made their way along side streets, drawn towards the trucks and television news crews, the high chain link of the backstop. 

"Quite the crowd for a high school softball game," Scully said as they neared the high school. 

The grass was lit by afternoon sunlight, the air held an early spring chill. From across the parking lot came the sweet music of an aluminum bat striking the ball, a cheer from the crowd. 

"Scully," Mulder said. 

She followed his eyes, saw the white pickup truck parked between a minivan and a convertible covered with silly string and toilet paper. She touched the hood. 

"Still warm," she said. 

Mulder tried the door. It wheezed open. 

She looked at him, frowned, snapped on rubber gloves. She popped the glove compartment. Her fingers grazed something rubbery, pulled it out. It unfurled in her hands. 

A rubber mask. Bulbous black eyes. Tiny mouth. 

"A smoking gun," Mulder said. 

She heard the sound of a ball slapping into a mitt. A body hitting the dirt. A roar of approval from the crowd. 

Mulder started to run. She followed.

*

Connie stood at the plate, bat cocked over her shoulder, kicking at the dirt with her cleat. She could hear everything; feel everything, all at once. The energy coursed through her, made her fingers tingle.

The muffled hot breaths of the catcher behind her. The wheeze of the umpire. The sounds of hundreds of feet on the old wooden bleachers, the rustle of Cracker Jack boxes, the crunching of teeth on popcorn. Her own teammates, breathing in tandem, fingers hooked through chain link, watching her. 

The pitcher launched into her windmill delivery. A fastball whistled towards the plate. Connie smiled, touched it with her mind, slowed it slightly, curved it through space almost imperceptibly. 

There. 

She swung the bat, heard the lovely sound that meant the ball had struck the sweet spot. It arced against the sky, a flash of white meant for the heavens. 

She jogged towards first, smiling and mugging for the crowd. When she heard them gasp and sigh, she turned back towards the field, already feeling a sick sinking in her chest.

The center fielder was standing up from the ground, a muddy green grass stain down the front of her uniform shirt, spitting dirt, but grinning, holding her glove aloft. 

She'd caught the goddamn ball. 

Connie stopped running, stared in disbelief. If she'd only touched it with her mind a little more, swung a little harder--

"Next time freshman, don't worry about it," Danielle said, donning her own helmet and stepping towards the plate. "We can't all hit home runs or we'd be here all night." 

The anger was there, suddenly, flooding into all of the empty spaces in her like an old friend. She took off her helmet, let it drop to the dirt. 

"Connie--" Alex called from the dugout, standing up. 

The center fielder threw the ball in, still smiling. She turned to jog back to her position. 

Her left cleat stuck in the mud.

She fell awkwardly sideways, her face almost comical in its surprise. Her arms flailed out, and the entire field heard the terrible crack as her ankle gave way under her own weight. 

Silence, and then a thin, wailing scream. 

Connie smiled savagely, picked up her own helmet, stalked back towards the dugout even as the other team went rushing past towards their fallen member.

The other girls moved aside as she pushed past, sat down heavily on the bench, scratched behind her ear in a vicious motion. Danielle stood at the plate, leaning on her bat, watching with cool, unblinking eyes. 

A coach and the left-fielder were assisting the injured player as she limped off the field. Her face was red, tear-streaked. Snot crusted under her nose. Blades of grass stuck in her hair. 

Another girl in a red uniform shirt took a few halting, hesitating steps onto the field. She looked back at her fallen teammate, then out at the sea of spectators and froze entirely. Her frightened face looked impossibly young and pale. 

"Second string," Jill said.

"Freshman," Connie added, feeling a mean jolt of pleasure. 

The girl on the field found her nerves and continued into the outfield. Someone in the stands booed. 

At the plate, Danielle pointed her bat straight at the new center-fielder, grinned. 

The crowd roared.

*

There were far too many people.

They stood in packs, shoulder to shoulder, pressing up against each other with an eagerness normally reserved for professional athletes, and even then only in playoff season. 

There were four news vans, from four different network stations. Teenagers in the bleachers, jostling each other for elbow room, straining and grinning and trying to get their faces on screen each time the cameraman went for a crowd shot.

A line of sticky-faced children assaulted an ice cream truck in the parking lot. 

"We're never going to find him this way," Scully said, shouldering past a burly man clutching a hot dog. 

Mulder had his cell phone tucked against his ear, was trying to shout above the din. "No... no... he's HERE. At the game." 

He hung up, swearing, swept frustrated eyes in her direction. 

"No help?"

He shook his head. "Harmon and his deputy are here already. As spectators. He promised to keep an eye out." 

"I think we need to put a stop to this," she said. She ducked around two laughing teenagers and found herself suddenly pressed up against the chain link of the backstop.

Danielle was at the plate, poised and ready, bat perched on her shoulder. The pitcher wound up, delivered. 

The ball seemed to slow as it neared the plate. Danielle swung, bat connecting with ball, ball sailing through the air.

Scully turned, bumping into Mulder who had materialized behind her. 

"I think stopping this game is going to be very difficult," he said, his voice low and close to her ear.

She looked back at him, met his eyes. He jerked his chin towards the opposing team's dugout, where a red-faced girl was sobbing as medics attended to her. 

"Carrie's in cleats instead of a prom dress," he said. "But the result is the same." 

*

Sixteen to zero in the third inning.

Connie sat on the bench, leaning forward, watching intently as Danielle crossed home plate. She saw the furtive nod that Danielle gave to Jaime as she waited on deck, the quiet communication between captain and underling. 

Connie was not surprised when Jaime struck out on the first three pitches, displaying none of her talents. 

They had, by unspoken understanding, fallen into a pattern of letting the other team make a little bit of progress. A fly ball caught here, a stumbling double play there, even a strikeout. 

They all knew interest would eventually wane if the game didn't move forward. 

Jennifer sent a weak pop fly to second base, and the inning was over. 

"Let's dazzle 'em," Danielle said, slapping Connie on the back. 

Connie grinned back, jumping to her feet. Her head had begun to hum, as though the energy of the crowd was a live current, flowing through her. She wondered if the others could feel that power, wanted to harness it as badly as she did. 

"Whoa," Jill said, touching the bridge of her nose. She gave a small smile, a nervous shake of her head. "Guess I stood up too fast." 

"I think something's happening," Alex said. She touched behind her ear, looked at her fingers. Her hands trembled. 

"Hey," Jill said, looking at Alex. "Hey." 

"Your ear," Alicia said. 

"It's a bug bite," Alex said. "I'm getting nauseous." 

"Jill's got one too."

Connie glanced away. Danielle was already halfway out onto the field, looking cool and confident. She tore her gaze from Danielle's back, frowned to see that Jaime and Jennifer had also halted their progress and were looking around uneasily. 

"Pull it together, guys," Connie said. "We've got a game to win." 

"I don't feel so good," Lauren said. 

Danielle seemed to realize she walked alone, turned, frowned back at her team. Connie squared her shoulders, tried to summon her strength. 

"This is not the time to show weakness. You want them to believe what the police are saying? That Coach did something to us? That she poisoned us?" 

She drew herself up to her full height, surprised at how good it felt to have all attention focused on her. 

"We're gonna go out there, and show them that there's nothing wrong with us. That whatever happened to us was a goddamn miracle. And we're not going to let up until they believe us." She shook away a sudden bout of vertigo, refocused her energy. "You with me? Or are you gonna leave your captain standing alone out there?" 

She turned and walked out on the field, her heart thudding in her chest. After a moment, she heard footsteps behind her. 

She didn't dare smile, but she saw a flicker of recognition in Danielle's face, a little flare of solidarity. 

*

A miserable-looking high school girl in a red uniform stood at the plate. She took a few practice swings, shot a nervous look at her coach who shooed her forward with an impatient hand gesture. 

The Manchester team took the field. 

Scully turned away, brushed up against Mulder, spoke into his ear. 

"Allegations of telekinesis aside," she said, "we have a possible kidnapping suspect here in the crowd. These girls could be in danger. I think that's a more than adequate reason to call off this game." 

Mulder shook his head slowly. "We don't want to spook him. If we can get one of the girls alone, ask her to ID him--" 

On the mound, Danielle wound up and delivered a scorching pitch that would have confounded a major leaguer. The batter swung wildly, missed. She staggered a little bit, grimly crouched and readied for the next pitch. 

The catcher mumbled something that Scully didn't quite catch. 

The batter turned, glared down, made a rude gesture. 

Danielle wound up, sent another pitch screaming straight at the batter. It struck her wrist with a crack that made the crowd groan in sympathy. 

The batter went white as a sheet, fell to her knees. She clutched her wrist, opened her mouth, let out a burbling, gargling scream. Medics hurried onto the field. 

An ambulance, lights turning lazily, waited in the parking lot. 

"Enough," Scully said.

Mulder nodded in quiet agreement. 

She reached for her badge, pushed her way through the crowd out onto the field, and that's when all hell broke loose.

*

 

Danielle had been resplendent on the mound, hurling fastballs at a girl who looked like she was swinging with her eyes closed and praying for contact. 

And then the girl had lost some of that fear, turned, said something snotty to Alex. And Connie had felt it. The others, too, and certainly Danielle, who seemed to take it quite personally. 

This wasn't domination, it was complete and utter decimation. 

The girl was screaming, sweaty hair plastered to her face, snot running down her nose, being cooed over by medical personnel. A living reminder that what you did to one member of a team, you did to all of them. 

Connie nodded at Danielle, who made an impatient twirling motion with her hand, grinned.

Connie picked up the ball, fired it to Danielle, who sent it back to Jill. Jill threw it to Lauren, who threw it to Alicia. The ball shot back and forth across the field.

She looked back at Danielle, saw red blood begin to leak out of the other girl's nostrils. Then she looked past her, towards the crowd, and froze. The redheaded FBI agent was shouldering her way onto the field. Behind her, in the bleachers, six laughing kids in a row donned alien masks, staring out at the field with bulbous black eyes. 

Connie stood, rooted, frozen at the sight of those blank rubber eyes. 

"No," she said. White lights. A wheezing, mechanical rumble. The prick of something sharp, just behind her ear. 

The ball whizzed past her ear on its way back to Danielle. She jumped, whirled, gave Kimberly a dirty look. Danielle caught it, almost dropped it, sent a halting throw to Lauren on third. 

Eyes, black eyes, eyes without souls. 

Running, running, running until her throat tasted of copper and her legs felt like jelly. Dragging ragged breaths into her chest. 

Eyes without souls. 

*"Don't you girls worry, we'll get you back home in a jiffy."* A human voice from an inhuman face. 

Where had she heard that voice before? 

She touched her head, spun away from the crowd. Someone threw a ball at her and she caught it reflexively, took two staggering steps forward. 

Alex was standing, moving towards the FBI agent with her arms extended, her face sweaty behind the catcher's mask. Her mouth was moving, crimson dripping from her nose down the front of her face. She went to her knees as the FBI agent caught her, kept her from going face down in the dirt. 

Connie turned slowly, saw Jill on her back in the outfield grass. 

Her brains itched and squirmed, as though they could jitter right out of her skull. 

A man sprang into focus, standing against the chain link. He stared straight at her, his face eerily still amidst the carnival game day atmosphere. A familiar face. 

*"Don't you girls worry, we'll get you back home in a jiffy."*

She stared back at him, wetness beginning to spread along her upper lip. 

"You were there," she said. "You were there."

He took a step away from the fence.  
She swiped her hand almost absently across her face, looked down, frowned as it came away red. 

When she looked back, he was gone. 

She jerked her head away, looked at Alex on her knees, the FBI agent looking into her eyes with a flashlight. There was a roaring sound, but she couldn't tell if it came from her ears or from the crowd around them. 

She threw the ball, put all of her strength into it, hoping the burst of exhilaration would chase away the sudden suffocating confusion.

She watched as Danielle put her hand out, halting, clumsy, and she reached out to touch the ball with her mind in a panicked gasp, willing it to stop, to fall, and realized with horror that she could no longer touch it. 

The ball struck Danielle straight in the chest.

Connie watched the other girl's eyes fly open wide, saw the air go out of her in a rush, saw her knees waver, saw her slip down to the ground in one fluid motion, ever graceful. 

It was suddenly very quiet. 

*

Out of the corner of her eye, Scully saw Mulder bolting through the crowd towards a man standing against the chain link fence. They both vanished behind the bleachers. 

She eased Alex out of her arms, propping her gently against the backstop. The catcher's labored respiration had slowed, blood was no longer pumping from her nose. Sheriff Harmon rushed onto the field in slow motion, looking distraught, confused, entirely too late.

Scully stood, hurried towards the pitcher's mound, towards the crumpled figure. She whirled towards the goggle-eyed medics, barked at them to get the stretcher from the ambulance. 

Danielle was face-up in the dirt, glassy eyes staring up at nothing. Her long dark hair fanned out around her. She did not move. 

She dropped to her knees next to the crumpled form, stomach tight with dread, felt in vain for a pulse. 

She heard shuffling footsteps behind her, turned to see Connie looking down with a blank expression of mute horror. There was a rusty smear under her nose where she'd wiped the blood away.

The others came, Jaime and Jennifer and Alicia and Kimberly and Lauren, stumbling like wounded zombies, their faces dirty and tear streaked. They clung to each other, huddled around the broken body of their captain. 

Connie stood apart. 

She did not cry. She said nothing, simply stood and stared down at Danielle's white still face. 

Scully started CPR, tried to blow life back into teenage lungs.

The medics appeared, pushing a stretcher through the shocked hushed crowd. Scully stepped away, let them take over. Her hands shook. 

She saw her partner join the stream of people flooding the field, met his eyes, bit her lip. He looked winded, his tie askew, and he shook his head with a frustrated little jerk. He crossed the field, passed her, went straight to Connie.

In the midst of the chaos, Connie looked very small. Just a fifteen year old girl with blonde hair and a baseball cap. Her eyes were wide and startled, her skin clammy.

"What happened?" Mulder asked her.

Connie turned away, bent down, heaving. She vomited into the dirt, fell to her knees. Scully approached, crouched down next to her, held that blonde ponytail aside. 

"I'm sorry," Connie said, between great heaving choking breaths. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

Scully held the girl, murmured soothingly to her as she gasped and choked on the ground. 

"It's gone," Connie said, tears welling her eyes and coursing down her cheeks. She began to sob, hiccupping breaths coming between heaves.

"What's gone?" Mulder asked, crouching down. 

Connie glanced up at him from under sweaty hair. "You know what." 

"She needs to get to a hospital," Scully said. 

"They all do," Mulder replied.

"They were aliens," Connie said, her eyes very wide, her voice high and breathless. "They were. But they had rubber eyes. And I was amazing, for a little while. We all were. I think I touched the sky." 

 

*

EPILOGUE

 

"I thought you'd like to know," Scully said, standing in the doorway to Mulder's apartment. 

He stood on the other side of the threshold, all crossed arms and guarded eyes. He did not invite her in, but did not block her entrance either. 

After a moment's hesitation she brushed past him, moved inside. He shut the door. 

"What did you find?"

"All eight girls were given a thorough examination, including a battery of blood tests."

He was already smiling, that thin-lipped wry defeated smile. "They didn't find anything." 

"They did find something," she said. "A small puncture wound, behind the left ear. Each girl had it. Somehow it was overlooked on their initial examination." 

He nodded slowly. "But?" 

She sighed. "But, their blood tests came back completely normal-- no traces of any drug or chemical. They are all the picture of health, Mulder. More so, they demonstrated average physical ability, average mental ability." 

"Eight completely normal teenage girls, in other words," he said.

She shrugged helplessly. "So it seems." 

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "You and I both saw what happened on that field." 

"I saw..." She looked away. "I can't explain what happened out there." 

He shook his head, seemed on the verge of saying something, instead walked away. She watched him go to the couch, sit down, turn on the television. 

"The white pickup truck turned up at a truck stop on I-95 in North Carolina," Mulder said finally. "They couldn't find a match for the prints they pulled off the steering wheel." 

She crossed her arms, did not cross to sit down next to him. "Back into the woodpile," she murmured. 

Silence stretched between them. Quiet voices came from the television. She turned to leave.

"Danielle Johnson," he said without looking at her. "How do you explain what happened to Danielle Johnson?" 

She crossed her arms, looked down at him. He seethed on the couch, all nervous, jumpy energy, his eyes not leaving the screen.

"That's the thing, Mulder," she said. "The autopsy results on Danielle Johnson revealed that she had an enlarged heart. A birth defect. She was like a ticking time bomb. The heightened physical activity, the stress..." 

"Ties it up with a pretty little bow," he said. "Nice neat package." 

"I know there are still questions." 

"And they'll never be answered," he said, turning a searching look to her face. "Will they?"

She knew he was talking about more than the girl. 

For a moment she hesitated, held his gaze. The moment passed. She looked away.

*

 

FOUR WEEKS LATER

 

"You've spoken to me in the past about feeling angry. Lonely. How are you feeling now, Connie?"

She sat on a cushy leather sofa, its color a rich warm brown. The office was done in earth tones, pale greens, buttery creams. Potted plants sat on the windowsill. 

It was deliberately calm, soothing, zen. 

Even the doctor, with his checkered shirt and glasses and soft white hair, seemed manufactured to be as inoffensive as possible. His voice was soft, gentle, invited confidence. 

She hated him. 

"I'm mean," she said after a long pause.

He nodded, tried to hide his surprise at her sudden confession. She had sat silently on his couch through six sessions already, steadfastly ignoring his pleas for her to speak to him. 

"Everyone is capable of being mean, Connie," he said. 

She smiled. "I like it. It's what keeps me going." 

She thought about her moments of vulnerability, those few wonderful days in the sun where Danielle had smiled upon her and she'd felt the wind of her fortune change. A few days as an insider. A part of something special, something unique. 

"There has to be something more than that," he said to her, leaning forward, touching her arm. "Often, anger is just a shield we put up to protect ourselves. From guilt. From pain." 

If she could brew rage like high octane coffee, she would. Let it percolate in her system, ignite her synapses like that brief, wonderful fire that had vanished so quickly. 

"Do you want to talk about these aliens you remember?" he asked gently.

She looked past him, over his shoulder, at the plants that sat serenely in the warm glow of spring sunlight. She stared hard. 

A leaf quivered.

She smiled.

*

END


End file.
